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John didn't know exactly when it was he'd become a zombie. Time seemed to slip by unnoticed a lot more these days. It had always had a sort of slippery quality, passing by his awareness with ease despite the rotund and heavy disposition it had. But now, since he'd changed, the days passed as a snowy gray blur. He had tried to pin down when he'd stopped being alive—it may have been last week sometime. He had a feeling it might have been longer. There was no particular moment, no significant event marking the change. It must have been a gradual process that started weeks or months ago, for all John could tell.

He sat at the breakfast table of his comfortable suburban house, spacious and child-free, while his wife, Julia, stood at the sink with her back to him. She kept the house immaculate. She seemed to have the extra time John felt was siphoning away. In addition to her hobby of keeping a show house, she was also an avid gardener and worked three days a week at a local florist. She had been generally unavailable for most of their marriage; she was even scarcer since John changed. He couldn't blame her, really—but it didn't make him feel any better. Although, he had stopped feeling much of anything some time ago. He sat staring at the empty plate in front of him, placed there every morning, originally from a sense of hope, then habit.

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